


To Know In Death

by byronicmusings



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Tragedy, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 09:23:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21268757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/byronicmusings/pseuds/byronicmusings
Summary: It takes him by shock, when he tumbles down his fallen horse, an arrow pierced deep in its flank.





	To Know In Death

**Author's Note:**

> _“I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell; I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world.”_
> 
> I read tsoa more than a year back so forgive me for any inaccuracies.

It takes him by shock, when he tumbles down his fallen horse, an arrow pierced deep in its flank. He is no inexperienced warrior - he knows the importance of being on his guard on the battlefield, knows how a split second could determine his fate. But regular mortal he is not, for this time he is in armour fit for a god. 

He gets on his feet, boots thudding against the hard, barren ground. Sunlight glints off his armour and into his eyes, and he squints in displeasure at the glare. Despite the fall he shines golden still, majestic in all his glory, a faux god untouched amidst the carnage of men.

He looks around him, but alas, here he stands alone. Enemy soldiers close around him like a pack of wolves surrounding their prey, fur bristling, eyes mocking. They do not attack, for how can they kill a god? Behind the armour lies the same mortal flesh, but they do not know. He growls, guttural and hostile. Already his eyes are calculating, searching for a way to turn the tides. Even hunters get hunted. 

Then Hector appears, the scale of his armour matching his own, and a tide of vicious anger rises in him. His expression hardens, lips turn downwards in a spiteful snarl. Swords are unsheathed, and the clanking of metal rings in his ears amongst grunts of effort and groans of pain. It is a concerto of blood and rage - and as he performs, the chords of Patroclus’ anger rise in a fierce crescendo. 

The two of them dance, the battlefield their stage, for their audience of bloodthirsty men and mutilated corpses. Some distance away other battles are being fought, but for the two men here the world is cast in blackness save for the spotlight of death flickering between them. It is a graceful dance of brutality, a ballet of swinging metal and fluid bodies. Sweat beads on their foreheads, glistens in the afternoon sun.

A blow connects abruptly and suddenly he is on his knees, unable to get up. His strength has left him, his body finally catching up with all that rage fuelled fighting. He glances down and sees red, so much red, gushing from his wounds and tainting the gold armour dull, seeping into the lifeless ground. _So this is how mortals die. _

His eyes glaze over the faceless silhouettes approaching him, lands instead on the setting sun and its golden rays. Images of blonde tresses and ethereal smiles flash through his mind. Laughter, sweet as honey, drips between his bloodied fingers. Familiar hands caress his face, warm and strong and all that he will ever love. His lips crack into a smile. 

_What a beautiful sunset,_ he thinks, through the distant haze of pain, as a spear gleams above. 

_Oh, if only Achilles was here to see it._


End file.
